


Three Taps Means, "It's Lonely Here"

by DoctorTrekLock



Series: Resolution19 [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint's Recruitment, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Recruitment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: Clint Barton was getting lost in the heavy beat of the music when he felt eyes on him.He was high on victory and the thrill of a job well done, three countries over from his latest assassination. A gun runner, this time, and he hoped the anonymous tip-offs kept coming. They screamed "government agency," but the steady voice on the other end of the phone line had yet to lead him wrong. And a job flush with details and a thorough background on the target (which was accurate as hell and sometimes included details he didn't even know)? At this point, the government spook in his ear was his best client. Clint almost wished he could afford to limit himself to those beautifully prepared jobs.





	Three Taps Means, "It's Lonely Here"

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"  
> Source: <http://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/130059129307/random-sentence-starters>  
> Title: "Me and My Giant" by Shel Silverstein
> 
> Originally posted April 1, 2019 on [Tumblr](http://doctortreklock.tumblr.com/post/183877505062/three-taps-means-its-lonely-here-april-1)

Clint Barton was getting lost in the heavy beat of the music when he felt eyes on him.

He was high on victory and the thrill of a job well done, three countries over from his latest assassination. A gun runner, this time, and he hoped the anonymous tip-offs kept coming. They screamed "government agency," but the steady voice on the other end of the phone line had yet to lead him wrong. And a job flush with details and a thorough background on the target (which was accurate as hell and sometimes included details he didn't even know)? At this point, the government spook in his ear was his best client. Clint almost wished he could afford to limit himself to those beautifully prepared jobs.

The deep, thrumming bass washed over him and sank into his bones with a hum that made his teeth ache. The heat and motion of tightly packed bodies on a dance floor enveloped him. He was nearly able to lose himself completely in the immediacy of the moment, but the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.

Clint lifted his eyes and unerringly found the man watching him. He was nondescript, dressed a little conservatively for the locale, but he didn't stick out like a sore thumb, either. The man didn't look away when Clint met his gaze, so he quirked an eyebrow in open invitation before purposefully turning his back on the man. If he wanted something from Clint, he was going to have to be more direct about it.

The music switched without pause from one earth-shattering song to another, the bass just as deep, but the rhythm slightly slower.

Clint didn't look back, but the sniper could feel the man's eyes still, and when a solid form tucked itself neatly against his back, he knew it was the same man.

He pushed himself back firmly against the man and nearly groaned aloud at the bulge he could feel against his lower back. He rested his head back on the man's shoulder to whisper in his ear, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the bass. "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Strong hands rested lightly on his hips. The man answered, a smile in his voice, "It's a gun, Hawkeye."

Clint froze, his breath stopping in his lungs. It was different in person, clearer, even with the roar of the club, but it was undoubtedly the same smooth voice that had been giving him hits for over a year.

He turned quickly in the man's hold, meeting blue eyes in a face that didn't look quite as nondescript up close. He rested his hands high on the man's chest, close enough that Clint could stop him from reaching for a weapon or could give himself leverage for a quick getaway. Around them, the dancers kept moving in a steady rhythm, but the two of them had stopped, a still island in the middle of the tumult.

"I don't--who--which agency?" Clint finally blurted out, "Because I really don't think the CIA could know about the date of Kanokov's annual physical."

The man chuckled, and the thin lines at the edges of his eyes crinkled. "If they do, it's only because we told them. Agent Phil Coulson," he introduced himself. "Of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. SHIELD for short." He looked like he wanted to shake Clint's hand, but couldn't because of obvious reasons.

"What do you want, Coulson?" Clint asked, unsure if it was his pulse or the bass thundering in his ears. He could feel the agent's heartbeat under his palm: steady, but slightly fast, like he was nervous about something. The man's hands still rested over his hips, but Clint wasn't sure if he wanted the grip to tighten or fall away completely.

Coulson's gaze was steady, and his words were serious. "We'd like you to come in, to be a proper agent, Mr. Barton."

Clint's mind flew back to the beautifully assembled jobs Coulson had sent him, to his earlier thought that he wished he could do those exclusively, to the feeling of finishing a job and knowing that the target had completely deserved it. He thought about constantly shifting between boltholes and the stability that could come from a single employer. A quiet voice murmured something that sounded like _home_.

Clint gave a half-shrug. "Sure. Sounds like fun."

Coulson's eyes crinkled again, and the corners of his mouth turned up. "Glad to hear it."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Eight Means, "Come Back Soon"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633043) by [DoctorTrekLock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock)




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